The next thing he knew, his face was half in the snow, the flakes dancing in and out of his mouth as he breathed in harsh coughing bursts. He was aflame with pain and something was burying him in the frozen ground. He could see white and dark and the length of his arm flung out to his side. The snow about it was pink.
‘That’s right, Master Rafe, deep breaths.’
It was Lowell, the groom.
‘Susan...’ Rafe croaked and there was a moment’s silence which made Rafe struggle to rise once more. But Lowell held him down.
‘Susan is well, Master Rafe. You stopped him afore he did harm and there’s many that’s grateful. You stop thrashing and I’ll let ’ee be. You’ve nothing broken that I can see, but you took some blows before we got you away and you’ll likely be sore. Best come inside now.’
‘I wanted to kill him!’ The words burst out, chasing away the new flakes that fell.
‘Ay, well,’ Lowell said as he took his substantial weight off Rafe. ‘Brave words, but best learn to fight proper afore you try next. You’re a right big lad and like to be bigger yet, but you’d best put some brawn on those inches.’
Rafe shoved to his shaky feet, twisting away from the groom’s attempt to help him. The cold pinched at his skin and tears at his eyes and he stalked away before they came.
* * *
He was shivering by the time he reached his room, but he stopped in the doorway. His mother was on her knees again, but this time by his school trunk. A maid placed a stack of shirts into the half-full trunk and at a signal from his mother she scurried out the door.
‘What are you doing?’
‘That should be evident, Rafael. I have ordered the carriage to be prepared and you will depart within the hour.’
For a moment he stood in shock but then anger came once again to his rescue.
‘I didn’t do anything wrong! This is Edward all over again—he did nothing wrong and you sent him away. Where will you send me, Mother? To Egypt as well? Or perhaps to the Antipodes?’
‘Do not be dramatic, Rafael. Until term begins you will stay at up at the Lakes. You like it there.’
‘In the summer,’ he exclaimed.
‘Do lower your voice. Dr Parracombe is with your father and has given him something to calm his nerves, but...’
‘Calm his nerves? He...he tried to kill Susan! How many more times will dear Dr Parracombe have to calm his nerves when he attacks one of us or the servants? He doesn’t need a doctor; he needs a cell in Bedlam!’
She surged to her feet—he was already over six feet, but though he towered over her she was absolutely in control. Her face was as cold as the lake, her eyes grey and flat.
‘You will never speak those words again, Rafael. Ever. Your father’s religious convictions merely lead to occasional...unbefitting effusions. That is all it is. One day you will be Duke of Greybourne and you must learn that life demands sacrifices.’
Sacrifices.
‘So you are sacrificing me,’ he said, far more calmly than he felt.
‘If that is what you choose to believe.’
‘I will tell you what I choose, Mother. If you send me away instead of him, I swear to you I’ll choose not to return to Greybourne so long as he lives.’
They stood in silence for a moment, then she inclined her head.
‘Perhaps that is best. Now go wash and change. And say goodbye to your sisters.’
* * *
Rafe leaned his bruised cheekbone glumly against the cold glass of the carriage window and watched the snowflakes melt and slither down. They’d stopped again to change the team of horses. They were probably close to Manchester because the courtyard was full of gigs and carriages and carts, with ostlers and passengers weaving between them, hunkered against the cold. Everything was in shades of brown and grey and again he felt the same rising choke of misery and fury.
Then at the edge of the courtyard he saw a flash of bright red, like fresh blood on the snow. He took his purse and stepped out on to the cobbles. A crowd had gathered to watch, some cheering, some less enthusiastic, but all curious as some two dozen red-coated soldiers marched along the muddy road.
The soldier bringing up the rear was a rather squat man, with the face of a cheeky gargoyle under his dark stovepipe shako. He stood very straight for his short stature. A little boy dashed out from the courtyard and marched alongside him for a moment and the soldier smiled down at him and patted his head without breaking step.
As the young boy ran back through the courtyard Rafe stepped forward, pulling a coin from his pocket.
‘Who were those soldiers?’ he asked. The boy stared at the coin, but was as quick to answer as he was on his feet.
‘Thirty-Sixth Foot returned from Ireland, sir. That was Sergeant Birdie, sir. My brother served with him, sir.’ All this was spoken in a hushed whisper, but with such pride Rafe smiled for the first time since coming down from school.
‘Sergeant Birdie,’ he repeated, flashing another coin. ‘Which way are their barracks?’
‘Over Bolton way, sir.’
‘Bolton...?’
‘That’s north, sir.’
‘Excellent. I’m heading north myself.’
‘Are you, sir?’ the boy asked, a little dubious, but his curiosity was nipped in the bud as Rafe slid him a third coin and stepped back into the carriage.
Bolton. Birdie. Brave new beginnings.
He’d need a new name, too...
Something simple that would draw no attention. Common, unobtrusive...
Grey...
Copyright © 2020 by Ilana Treston
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ISBN-13: 9781488065897
A Forbidden Liaison with Miss Grant
Copyright © 2020 by Marguerite Kaye
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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A Forbidden Liaison with Miss Grant Page 23